The Dark Side

by Anthony O'Neill

  JUSTUS COMES TO PURGATORY

  There’s a photo of him—it looks like his official PPD shot—and the words “See Page 3”.

  Under the byline of Nat U. Reilly, the opening paragraph reads: “Damien Justus, the new police lieutenant in Sin, is too modest to compare himself to such legendary lawmen as Wyatt Earp or Eliot Ness. But he thinks his surname says everything about what he intends to bring to a city where justice has too long been sold to the highest bidder.”

  Justus is pretty sure he never said that, and is equally annoyed by the Page 3 headline: LET JUSTUS REIGN. He’s astonished, apart from anything else, that the interview is so prominent on the day of a murderous bomb blast.

  “Expressly appointed by secretary of law enforcement QT Brass,” the article goes on, “Justus is an old-fashioned cop, a firm believer in the rule of law. But he’s careful not to bring any prejudices with him. ‘You can assure your readers that I’m a clean view,’ he says. ‘I don’t care about people’s histories or how much money they earn. My job is to make this place safer for everyone from the street sweepers to Fletcher Brass. I’m not here to make friends, and I’m certainly not here to make money or to have fun. But I hope people understand what I’m trying to achieve.’ ”

  This is closer to what he actually said, but it’s been so freely adapted Justus feels like he’s reading a novel. His eyes skim across more scraps.

  “Justus himself has no record of police corruption . . . says his distinctive face, the result of an acid attack by hired henchmen, is a badge of honor . . . says he likes what he’s seen of the local population . . . believes the reputation of Sin might have been exaggerated . . .”

  But by now he’s so annoyed that he can read no more—not in public, anyway. So he picks up the paper and waves it at the grinning proprietor—his coin has already covered the cost—and then tucks it under his arm and heads out.

  It’s raining now—big, pendulous drops falling so far apart it’s possible to weave between them without getting wet. Justus hunches up reflexively but hasn’t progressed very far when he hears a voice.

  “Lieutenant!”

  It’s Dash Chin, still in his police uniform but holding a bottle of the local hooch. He weaves between other pedestrians and catches up, smiling.

  “On your way to Ishtar?” he asks.

  “That’s right.”

  “How you findin’ your pad?”

  “I’ve lived in worse places.”

  Chin sniggers. “Jabba’s got a place in Zabada, you know.”

  “I’ve heard that.”

  “And I overheard him talking about you, you know. He was really pumpin’ up your tires.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Said he wanted us flatfoots to follow your orders to the letter. Said you could be the new face of the PPD.”

  “ ‘The new face’—that’s interesting.”

  “Well”—Chin takes a swig from his bottle—“the police aren’t the most popular bunch in Sin, you know.”

  “That can happen.”

  “But here especially. We got a reputation for cracking heads—you know, like, for fun and shit. That’s why this new case, this bombing, might be just what we’re all lookin’ for.”

  “I’m not sure the police should ever welcome a bombing.”

  “Yeah, well,” Chin says, “we could sure do with a hero right now. And if you follow this case through all the way to the end, and you cuff some really big names—well, that’ll make a big difference to our image ’round here.”

  Justus holds up his copy of the Tablet. “I’m not sure if you noticed, but I seem to be a hero already. Without having done a thing.”

  Chin chuckles. “They don’t waste time at the Tablet, do they? That interview has been all over their media streams for hours now—it was front page for a while.”

  “Is that right?” To Justus this confirms his suspicion that the whole thing was written in advance. “It reads more like a eulogy than an interview.”

  “Well, that’s just Nat U. Reilly—he doesn’t hold back. Anyway, you probably didn’t see the Bill Swagger piece.”

  “Bill Swagger?”

  “The local shock jock. He’s got a column in the Tablet too. And he dumps all over you. Says we don’t need Dudley Do-Rights—that’s what he called you, Dudley Do-Right—tellin’ us where to get off.”

  “I see.” Justus makes a mental note to read the piece later. “That sort of balances out the fan club article, I suppose.”

  “Sorta,” agrees Chin. “Say, didja hear the latest?”

  “Latest?”

  “Some group has claimed responsibility for the bomb.”

  “What?” The two men have reached a square dominated by a statue of a winged Babylonian demon, and Justus turns. “Someone has claimed responsibility?”

  Chin, clearly not expecting such a reaction, seems self-conscious. “Yeah.”

  “Who? Who was it?”

  “Just some terrorist outfit.”

  Justus is again amazed that such an important piece of information has been treated like an afterthought. “Who? What are they called?”

  “The People’s Hammer.”

  “The People’s Hammer? Are they well-known around here?”

  “Never heard of them before.”

  “And they issued—what? A statement?”

  “To the Tablet, yeah. It’s all over their front page.”

  “I thought the bombing was on the front page.”

  “That’s the print edition. I’m talkin’ now—online.”

  Justus thinks about it, shakes his head in astonishment. “But this is a major development! We need to go back to the station to—”

  He makes a move but Chin actually blocks him. “Hey now, sir,” he says, “let’s not get ahead of ourselves, huh?”

  Justus frowns. “Ahead of ourselves?”

  “I mean, what’s the point of goin’ back to the station house right now? When it’s only full of drunks and whores and shit? We can have a powwow about this in the mornin’, right? I mean, it’s not like this claim has been verified or anything. Just some kook, probably—a prank or somethin’. No point losin’ sleep over a bad joke, eh?” And Chin, trying not to seem desperate, takes another swig of his booze.

  Justus takes a look at him. And though a good part of him wants to put the young man firmly in his place, there’s something in Chin’s eyes—some unsettling glint—that makes him hesitate. And then a big blob of water—a raindrop the size of an apricot—explodes on his head, sending cascades of water down his face, and settles the deal.

  “You’re right,” he says, nodding. “It can wait till morning.”

  “That’s my man,” Chin says, clearly relieved. “We’ll all be better off after a good night’s sleep anyway. I see you got some ChocWinks™ there.”

  “That’s right.”

  Chin holds up his bottle. “Dissolve three in MoonShine® if you’re lookin’ for some wicked dreams.”

  “I’ll remember that.”

  “Anyway,” Chin chuckles, winking, “guess I’ll see you in the mornin’, huh, sir?”

  “Yeah,” Justus says, “I’ll see you then.”

  When Chin leaves Justus is seething. Because he’s seen this before—cops making important decisions based on whatever’s convenient. Which is usually whatever gets a case postponed for another day, but sometimes is whatever gets it filed away permanently. Though this is not to say that Chin isn’t right, of course—the terrorist claim could easily be a fraud, trumped up shamelessly in the local tabloid.

  Justus picks up his pace, strutting through the blobs of rain, and when he reaches his apartment block he bounds up the steps three at a time to his front door.

  Inside, he at first doesn’t notice anything awry. He loosens his tie and heads for the kitchen to get a drink. It’s only when he reaches the darkened living area, and is about to voice-activate the lights, that he sees something.

  A figure is sitting in hi
s armchair, silhouetted by the flashing neon outside.

  In a whirl Justus flings away the drink and rips out his zapper. He aims it at the man, calling, “LIGHTS!”

  Then, under full illumination, he sees that the figure in the chair is not really a man at all.

  “Good evening, sir,” the figure says smoothly—as if such an intrusion is the most natural thing in the world.

  It’s Leonardo Grey.

  17

  HE’S STILL IN HIS spotless grey suit, his grey hair still immaculate, his grey eyes staring at Justus unapologetically. His hands are clamped around the ends of the armrests and his legs are uncrossed, so that in posture at least he resembles the Lincoln Memorial statue.

  “I apologize if I have surprised you, sir.”

  Justus lowers his zapper. “How did you get in?”

  “As Mr. Brass’s valet, I have access to everywhere in Sin.”

  “Everywhere?”

  “Everywhere.”

  “That’s interesting,” Justus says.

  “Why is it interesting, sir?”

  “Never mind.”

  Grey gestures at the water stain. “Would you like me to clean up the mess?”

  “Is that part of your valet programming too?”

  “I am an excellent janitor, sir.”

  “I’m sure you are,” Justus says. “But it’s only tonic water—it shouldn’t stain.” He lowers himself onto a faux-leather sofa. “Is this some sort of emergency?”

  “It is not an emergency, sir—it’s a matter of courtesy. Mr. Brass has sent me to explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “Mr. Brass wishes to apologize for not meeting you in person.”

  “He does, does he?”

  “Mr. Brass understands that you were informed that the gentleman whom you met this morning, and who was introduced to you as Fletcher Brass, was, in fact, an impersonator.”

  “How does Mr. Brass know that?”

  “I am not able to answer that, sir.”

  Justus wonders if his meeting with QT Brass was recorded somehow—if it was overheard, for that matter, by Leonardo Brown. “Well, is there a good explanation for the deception?”

  “There is an excellent explanation, sir. Mr. Brass is currently preoccupied with the preparations for his trip to Mars. Due to the synodic period of Mars there is a favorable launch window only—”

  “Yes, I’ve heard all that.”

  “—only every 779 days, sir. If the rocket is unready, then more than two years will elapse before—”

  “I know, I know.”

  “—before the launch can be achieved again. Clearly Mr. Brass can ill afford to miss that target, as he considers the Mars mission the summit of his life’s achievements.”

  “Is your master building the rocket personally?”

  “He is not, sir, but he is supervising every aspect of the fitting and victualing, and undergoing intensive training procedures with the rest of the crew.”

  “Well, that’s all very well and good, but I’ll still need to speak to him personally at some point.”

  “That is not possible, sir.”

  “It has to be possible, if I’m to do my job thoroughly.”

  “It is not possible, sir.”

  “This is a murder case. If I need to speak to Fletcher Brass, I will.”

  “You will not, sir.”

  “And I’m telling you I will. Is Fletcher Brass above the law here?”

  “He is, sir.”

  It’s such an obvious answer, delivered in such a matter-of-fact tone, that Justus is genuinely surprised. And surprised that he is surprised. But he shakes his head. “Surely I can’t be expected to keep speaking to that actor?”

  “That is the way it is, sir,” the droid says. “The impersonator is very well versed in all aspects of Mr. Brass’s life, and can answer as adequately as Mr. Brass himself.”

  “Is this some sort of joke?”

  “It is not a joke, sir.”

  “A couple of minutes ago you told me you were sent to apologize for deceiving me. Now it doesn’t seem that you’re apologizing at all.”

  “I was apologizing for the misunderstanding, sir—not for the deception itself.”

  For a moment Justus looks at the view outside the window: the glowing neon, the hypnotically slow-falling rain. Then he refocuses on Grey, as if to refresh the whole scene. As if to make sure he’s not dreaming. “How long has this been going on?” he asks.

  “How long has what been going on, sir?”

  “How long has this actor been filling in for Fletcher Brass?”

  “It has been going on for over three years now. The arrangement is well understood here in Purgatory, and it is a matter of some regret that you did not know about it.”

  Justus thinks about it. “The rocket hasn’t been under construction for three years.”

  “That is true, sir.”

  “Then why has the deception been going on for so long?”

  “For security reasons, sir.”

  “Fletcher Brass fears for his safety?”

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  “Why? Why does he fear for his safety?”

  “Mr. Brass is the ultimate authority in Purgatory, and as such he is sometimes forced to make decisions that are not well received.”

  “What sort of decisions?”

  “Decisions that make him seem ruthless, sir, but which are best for the territory as a whole.”

  “Decisions that might provoke a violent response?”

  “I am not in a position to comment on that, sir.”

  “You do realize that a terrorist group has now claimed responsibility for the bombing?”

  “I did not know that, sir.”

  “Well, I’m telling you now. What do you make of it?”

  Leonardo Grey sits silent and unmoving for several seconds, face blank, eyes unblinking, as if indulging in some relayed communication. Which, if radio communication is truly prohibited in Purgatory, Justus knows is impossible—or at the very least illegal. And finally the droid says, “There has certainly been much systematic agitation of volatile sensibilities, sir.”

  He sounds like he’s reciting lines from a script. “Agitation?” Justus says. “By whom?”

  “Irresponsible persons. People who foment rebellion for their own purposes.”

  “Terrorists?”

  “I am not in a position to say that, sir.”

  “QT Brass?”

  “I am not in a position to say that, sir.”

  “Nevertheless, you must see that what you’re talking about is the very reason I need to speak to Fletcher Brass personally.”

  “That is not possible, as I have said, sir.”

  “Why? He’s not dead, is he?”

  “He is not dead.”

  “He’s not ill?”

  “He is only, as I have said, preoccupied.”

  “No one is so preoccupied that they can’t spare a few minutes.”

  “Mr. Brass is so preoccupied, sir, that even if he were able to spare a few minutes he would not be very accommodating to you.”

  “You’re saying he’s got a powerful temper?”

  “Mr. Brass is a passionate man.”

  Justus snorts. “Well, I know all about powerful and passionate men. I’ve dealt with plenty of them before. And I can deal with them again.”

  “I’m not sure you understand, sir. Mr. Brass is under such stress that the man you meet would not be the—”

  “No, I’m not sure you understand.” Justus has had experience with androids before too—on Earth he once instructed one in detective procedures—and he knows you have to be as firm with them as you might be with a stubborn child. “The Brass I met this morning—the actor—assured me of his full cooperation. He said he encouraged me to rummage through his drawers. And if what you say is true, then I’m satisfied that those are the sentiments of the genuine Fletcher Brass. So I not only prefer to speak to the real Brass, I insi
st upon it. It’s my duty as an investigating officer. And it’s crucial to the integrity of the investigation. It’s in everyone’s best interests, and may, in fact, be the difference between life and death. So it’s simply not negotiable. Do you understand that?”

  Leonardo Grey sits in silence for a few seconds, again as if engaged in some secret communication. And eventually he says, “I understand, sir.”

  “Very good,” says Justus. “Then please arrange a meeting as soon as possible. You know how to contact me.”

  “I do, sir.”

  For a few moments Grey continues staring—Justus knows it’s a stretch to read any malevolence into the look—and then gets to his feet in one fluent movement.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you, sir,” the droid says. “I apologize again for my unannounced intrusion. And for any misunderstanding.”

  “Perfectly okay.” Justus ushers him to the door. “But one last question before you go.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “You’re the same model as Leonardo Brown, are you not?”

  “That is correct, sir. We all are.”

  “All?”

  “Myself, Leonardo Brown, Leonardo White, and Leonardo Black.”

  “Uh-huh,” says Justus. “What happened to Leonardo Green?”

  “There is no Leonardo Green, sir.”

  “Then why ‘Leonardo,’ may I ask?”

  “We were named in honor of Leonardo da Vinci, who in 1495 designed the first known android.”

  “Fascinating. So you’re sort of like brothers?”

  “We were all constructed as part of the Daedalus Project, sir.”

  “I see.”

  Justus makes a mental note to check it out as soon as possible, and lets Leonardo Grey out the door.

  18

  THE BLACK-HAIRED, BLACK-SUITED, BLACK-EYED, and black-tied droid continues traveling at top speed across the lunar Farside. The surface area of the Moon is 38 million square kilometers, roughly equivalent to the combined sizes of North America and Antarctica. When the droid started out on his odyssey, Purgatory—or Oz, or El Dorado—was slightly more than 2,500 kilometers distant. Even now it’s just under 1,800 kilometers away. An m-train on Nearside could cover the distance in two hours; a shuttle, a lobber, or a hopper could do it in even less. But on Farside, even traveling 24/7 on hard-packed maintenance roads, the droid calculates he can make such a distance in no less than two and a half days. By which time the day-night terminator will have passed across him, and he will be traveling in complete darkness.